If I was an author, I would be universally considered incompetent, with a style vaguely resembling an odd blend of Hermann Hesse and a five-year old who can almost spell his name. Something like an as-yet-to-be-published montsnmags enterprises novel but infinitely less understandable, less humorous, and less sane (and without the gibbons).
My mind was reeling [it would always be reeling in my novels - there is no other state of mind]. Horses clopped down the cobblestone streets and I realized that the senselessness of the sounds they made as they carried their passengers to the court were comparable to the asthmatic coughs of an elderly man with advanced pnumonia - utterly pointless [so is this sentence]. The wallpaper was fuscia - God, the pain of it! [yes, it resembles the pain of reading this post] The hours I spent in misery raking over mounds of papers with Times New Roman and Arial fonts is only nearly as painful [huh?]......
I like to think of it as Romantic SciFi topped with a rich layer of chocolate anxiety and nuts.